


When the Sky Breaks

by Of Elves and Wolves (Only2morrow)



Series: Ella Lavellan [11]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M, First Time, Kissing, Sex Magic, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-31
Updated: 2016-01-31
Packaged: 2018-05-17 10:41:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,851
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5866303
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Only2morrow/pseuds/Of%20Elves%20and%20Wolves
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ella and Solas have been resisting their urges for months. But after Solas returns from solitude, they can not resist any longer.</p>
            </blockquote>





	When the Sky Breaks

**Author's Note:**

> Cowritten with the fantastic Arrowmaker 247 who took hold of Solas for this piece (Tumblr- http://arrowmaker247.tumblr.com/)

Solas should have spoken then. Should have answered her questions, and thanked her for her thoughtfulness. Should have praised her keen mind, the brightness of her spirit, and her focus. Her rationale, in the face of such anxieties. Should have whispered sweet words into her ear, let her know exactly how lovely she was. How wonderful.

Instead, he was caught by passion. A sudden surge, like the strike of lightning above the ocean. Rich and powerful and breaking suddenly, like thunder on the horizon.

His kiss caught her by surprise. His hands at her waist, even more so. The crush of her chest against his, as he pulled her into his embrace, threatened to knock the breath from her lungs.

And it was only by the mercy of his higher mind, that he managed to hold onto his.

“Tell me to stop.” He whispered, desperate kisses peppered over her lips, her cheeks, her eyelids. He never wished to. She was bottled passion, and he could not tear himself from the tap. He wanted to touch her. Taste her. Sink his worries in the burning velvet of her core. Like so many young maidens visited by a lustful god, he wanted to consume her fully.

He wanted her flushed and moaning. Naked and swarmed by ecstasy. He wanted it here, in the gardens of this fortress. To pretend that she was a dreaming priestess of the Creators, and he the sly spirit that had lulled her away. Sundered her chastity with only a few sweet words and touches. Opened her mind and soul to a world of pleasure. Of great wisdom, and skepticism toward all she had been taught.

He wanted her soft sighs and subtle moans. The supple caress of her body, as her hips rocked beneath him. The splendor of her breasts, small and pert and perfect, as they had been in that carving. He wanted the shy blush on her cheeks. Wanted to watch it melt into something shameless--careless even--as she found herself in the throes of rapture. Wanted to spend himself inside her, with her cries of passion in his ear.

“Tell me to stop, Ella.” He murmured once more, as his hands smoothed over the sharp line of her collar, green catching the ends of his fingers, and encouraging laces to unravel. Furs to drop away, and cloth to unwind.

Inch by inch, bronze skin was revealed, and her clothing little more than a pile of loose silks at her feet. She was going to be naked by the time his fingers glided over her hips.

“Tel'dian.”

All common words left the Keeper's mind. All sense, gone with the wind. With those feverish kisses, every last inhibition left her mind. Leaving secret desires bare.

That hibiscus upon her cheeks never bloomed. No shame came to the Keeper in this moment, her own fingers assisting him in her undressing. Wishing to be just as nude beneath the moonlight as those silly shemlen stories assumed. A smile touched those pink lips. She would happily be the steel consumed by the flames in Solas's eyes, baring herself and waiting to be forged upon that lustful fire.

Light began to glow on the tips of her fingers, illuminating bronze as the last ties of her skirt fell to the ground. With the last drop of ring velvet, she stood as pure as a snowy halla. Untouched by man, beast, or Creator..

For the first time, Solas could see the true tale painted upon the Keeper's form. The slash on her left thigh from a bandit's blade. The cut on her arm where a stubborn rock ruined an innocent midnight swim. The small mark upon her breast, given to her upon entering this world. She was a canvas, just as marked as memories in the Fade. Each waiting to be explored. Each waiting to be uncovered by the dreamer's steps.

And yet, even with her slim elven form, parts of her remained supple to the touch. Her arms were not muscled by the slashing of a dagger, but the mixing of a potion.. Her hips not carved by the hunt, but curved by her days spent over a tome. The flair of her breast never stifled by the frilly corsets and expensive lace of the human world. They remained as free as the Dalish themselves. And finally, the soft treasure trove between her thighs, hairless and wanting. She was no perfect specimen of elven triumph, but rather a woman. A real woman.

Her cheeks were heated as the soft petals of a crimson rose, a blush leading all the way to her pointed ears. Her hands came to his own clothing and began a journey.

He caught her then, his hands marauding upon her hips. Pulling them close together. Those innocent lips parted in a lustful, throaty moan. Just as glowing, green hands came to her breast.

“Dread Wolf, take me.” she murmured to herself, a curse moreso than a whisper. And yet, that one phrase only to ignited the flame further.

Her hands pushed back the iron-barked braid upon her shoulder, baring her neck to Solas completely, her back pressed against his chest. A moue escaped her this time, a soft thing but utterly alluring in tone.

Her hands wandered behind her, raking over warm fabric and up to the smooth crown of his head. She turned, the Keeper's eyes laced with that wonderful spark of passion. Slim hands crept toward the hem of that lambswool sweater, throwing the thing to the whims of the garden.

She did not pause, did not stop in the brashness of her fingers. As quickly as her quill to parchment, she pawed, exposing each and every secret of his flesh. He did not hide this time, did not run back into the woods, did not pull away from her lips. He was hers, as she was his.

Her chest rose and fell quickly, breath leaving her lungs with each heated kiss. Her fingers began to glow with thefamiliar light of Arlathan, unlacing leather breeches. A small spark of rebellion twinkling in sapphire orbs.

That impossible breath slowed as the last piece of cloth fell to the lush grass below, leaving him as bare before the howling moon as she.

If those blooming roses hadn't betrayed the purity of her nature, the widening of those sky-colored orbs certainly would have. He was... carved. Muscled, but not overly so. Even if he spent more time in the company of knowledge rather than swords. His arms, so perfectly created for caresses. His chest, just as she imagined, peppered with the veil itself.

He must have been created by the gods themselves to have such a form. A smile took her lips as she tentatively reached out to his bare chest, a single spark of lightning stinging her finger. She withdrew her hand, quickly pressing the flesh to her lips.

He gathered that finger to his lips, healing the stinging flesh. Slowly she gathered her cloak laying it upon the grass below them and laying herself upon the forest stitched fabric below. She did not blush in her openess, did not pause to think, with gentle fingers she let the tight braid out upon her iron-barked hair each strand spraying out on to the cloak below creating a painting all of her own. 

The air grew humid, as the lovers sank to the ground. Mist gathered, drawing out the heat of their breath. Making sweat pop along their forms. And soon, dark clouds gathered. Bursting into a flash of lightning. The crack of thunder. And the steady drop of rain.

She was naked, wet, glistening. Soaked from rain and passion, as his fingers traced over her form. Catching drops of moisture along the column of her throat. The slick tresses of her hair. The small, up-tilted peaks of her breasts. Dotted with raindrops, running their course down the line of her belly, and disappearing between her thighs.

Lightning cast hues of silver into her skin. Only thunder could rival her sweet moans, as he drew his lips over her breasts. Tasting salt, and fresh water. She was shivering beneath him, but warm to the touch. Her nipples rose stiff and high, and he could not resist taking a bud between his teeth, his hand slipping low to search between her thighs.

She opened to him like a blossom in the spring. Slick and eager and yearning. Wet ribbons of passion spilled from layers of dark pink, and he could not help searching inside. He wanted to paint her walls with nothing but his fingers and tongue. Wanted to canvas the supple clench of her inner muscles, and tell stories in the cavern of her most intimate space.

He wanted to wipe away the vallaslin on her face through slow, sweet kisses. Wanted to trace new patterns into her skin. Mark her as something free. Like a wild halla, roaming through the forest. Unfettered by the storm.

She was lush in his arms. Eager for his touch. For the low-reaching kisses and twine of his tongue, along flush, parted skin. Like honeysuckle and mint. Wild hibiscus, and cinnamon bark.

And when he pushed inside, her muscles were like solid rock. Unyielding stone, against his impassioned press. But soon, she yielded. Crumbled, as if struck by an earthquake.

The heavy crimson staining his fingers made him pause. The blood-writing of her maidenhead, making its presence known. Slim, lithe muscles coiled, even as he pulsed inside her. Ready to stop. He would not savage her innocence this night. He would not take what was not freely offered.

Another spray of rain heralded the crack of lightning, illuminating his pale skin with brilliant white. Cast electricity into the pooled silver of his eyes. And illustrated the angular lines of his face, dark with passion.

But he would not hurt her. No, nothing would be taken, that was not offered.

And so, Solas was patient. He would not be the fierce Dread Wolf, eager to take what was not his own through wiles. To lead her into the abyss, and leave her stained, and unsatisfied.

He would offer her joy and knowledge. Freedom and rapture.

But he would not do so through force.

If she wished to sample the tree of forbidden knowledge, it would be her hands that reached for the apple.

And he would draw away, the moment she asked.

“Tel'dian.”

Another moment could not pass without the Keeper's body pressed against his. Again the lightning crackled, the magic singing upon her skin. And though the place where innocence camped between her thighs found itself gone with the wind...the sight of blood did not give her pause.

She met the blood of his fingers with a warm kiss against his cheek, a nuzzle of the flesh and a silent reassurance that what Ellana Lavellan chose, she chose completely. She was a woman of her own mind, her own form, her own pleasures--be it watching his paint brushes curve the wall, or listening to the tale of a rebellious spirit in the Fade.

Her hand reached out to his, linking her small one and his long so close together. She nuzzled upon his neck, her form taking to his for warmth. A lithe leg draped over the apostate's form, pressing her most intimate space to him.

The dark passion upon his face did not give her pause. The loud thunder between them did not send her skittering into the forest. He did not need to twist her, coax her with wiles. Perhaps she knew little of his life before, he kept his secrets and she knew this. But with each peppered kiss, she smiled.

She knew the line of his chin, the small scar above his brow. She knew the sun-licked kisses of pale freckles upon his cheeks. She knew the curve of his jaw, strong and cunning. She knew the softness of his crown and the way her fingertips danced upon it. She knew the crook in his lips as it set in a scowl. A grim response to fresh tea.

She took his hand into hers once more, leading him into the forest of her body as she'd lead him the day before. Her legs parted eagerly for him, her own fingers urging him back into uncharted territory. Familiar green light lit his fingers, and he parted her as easily as soil. She moaned, her hips moving with his fingers in some animalistic fashion. He coaxed, and she responded, each moan better than the last. Her lips parted, her entire form coming upon him. Crushing her mouth to his once more, just as her body took its first pleasure from those long fingers.

Her mind was a haze, all emotions replaced by the rise and fall of her chest pressed to his. Her cheeks flared in a blush--like a star in the night's sky--as she kissed him yet again.

Her hips moved once more, that supple bronze form coming to rest upon him after a long day. Her arms took that smooth face into her hands, and kissed him yet again, the veil dancing upon their lips. Again. the lightning crackled, illuminating her body sitting so perfectly upon his.

This time her own fingers reached out. Her virgin touch unsure, but eager. As if lighting her fingers with a spell for the first time. He moved in her grasp, a curious reaction. His own hands reaching out to her breasts once more, meeting the two hard buds with a small nip.

“Fen'harel's teeth.” She cursed, as her flesh erupted in tingles. The cool rain only adding to the lovely mixture. A curious look sat upon his face as she nuzzled him yet again, nipping at the lower lobe of his ear.

Those potion stained fingers moved him yet again, her hips rising, and pulling that flesh deep within her. Those pink lips parted in a gasp, her eyes blowing wide.

And her hips had yet to move.

Unlike the moonlight hit her cheeks on a balcony, there were no hints of a blush upon her cheeks. Only the warm bud of beginning pleasure. She moved her hips tentatively, testing the cool waters below her.

For all the Keeper's time spent over tomes, no words described the pleasure taken upon that first movement of her hips. Her body sang, another delightful gasp coming from her, as a surprised laugh followed, utterly shocked in the tremble of her body. Ella paused, cheeks stained scarlet as she covered her lips with his. 

A snarl touched Solas’s face, wolflike, as she rocked above him. He was pulsing inside her. He wanted to throw her right onto her back, dig his teeth into her shoulder, and finish inside, marking her as his own.

But his higher mind won the day. Instead, he focused upon the luscious bounce of her breasts, trails of water spilling along her skin. Over the flat line of her belly. Along the curve of her hips. Disappearing into the split in her flesh, where sturdy flesh entered her time and again.

She was satin and velvet. Wet silk, casing his most intimate skin. His fingertips caught her hips, bracing them as he rose into a sitting position, and bent his head low, taking the tip of a breast into his mouth. The wet clasp of her flesh tightened with each suck. She was beginning to grow fierce in her ride, her rhythm.

And when his hands smoothed inward, a thumb swiping against the tiniest point of her pleasure, lightning broke against the sky. Thunder roared in his ears, and rain splattered his skin, as she came in a trembling burst. A supple motion that rocked the whole of his length, molten flesh yielding to the stout pressure of his cock.

Rapture spread thick over him, surreal as any dream. She had tossed her head back and moaned, rain water splashing against her breasts, pert and firm in his cupped hands. Soothing her, as she came down from her high.

He collapsed in a boneless puddle against the wet grass. Naked and shivering, with her atop him.

And then, a smile broke out over Solas’s face.

For the first time, he wasn’t overthinking matters. Wasn’t weary and cynical, as he watched the world amble on, heedless of its foolishness.

He was happy. Time came to a full stop, with this woman in his arms. And he was happy.

Once more Ella nuzzled Solas's neck, laying one last kiss upon that strong jaw. She yawned, feeling more contented at that very moment than she had in her whole life. Skyhold, her clan, these places weren't home. But here, in the arms of the apostate, the Keeper finally found a place of her own.

She muttered something in elvish, another yawn taking her lips as the rain halted. She did not move to dress herself, or even to cover her nude form.

“Ma'arlath.” The Keeper whispered into the crook of his neck, before crossing from one realm into another.


End file.
